


Eye of the Beholder

by SunlitGarden



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Jughead is probably demisexual, Magic Mirrors, Mutual Masturbation, Potions, Sexy Times, Sorcerers, Sorceresses, Strangers to Lovers, Supernatural Elements, sexy back kink, until he sees a certain hot blonde and parts awaken
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 05:50:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19419751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunlitGarden/pseuds/SunlitGarden
Summary: There's no spell that can convince sorcerer Jughead Jones to procreate for some prophecy or a pardon, but there's something magical about his connection with the blonde sorceress who bares her back to him in the enchanted mirror.





	Eye of the Beholder

**Author's Note:**

> Expositiooooon and world-building exists because my porn needs plot, apparently, so skip ahead to the naked parts if you don't care about that. "Plot" is a loose term, anyway. It's sorcerer Bughead tinder. I hope you enjoy! Thanks to @jandjsalmon for being such an endlessly thoughtful, patient and encouraging cheerleader, beta, and graphic-maker. Also shoutout to the brilliant soft cactus princess @thetaoofbetty/Smudge for reminding me to be true to myself and to our faves. I'm lucky to have such lovely friends, and to have met my husband on an app that let us discover a glimpse of each other's magic! It wasn't tindr. Nor was it Eye of the Beholder. BUT I HOPE YOU LOVE BUGHEAD DISCOVERING EACH OTHER! YAAAAY~

Most likely, Archie’s only providing for lunch because he needs a favor or advice. But the soup smells great and the bread is fresh, so Jughead sits down ready to endure his friend’s latest quest for justice or maidens. He squeezes the warm loaf to test how a big of a piece he can fit in his hand.

“What’s on your mind, Arch?”

“Okay, so I want you to keep an open mind--”

“Such a _specialty_ of mine,” he teases, stuffing his mouth with soup-saturated bread.

Archie nearly huffs at his interruption. “But I want to talk to you about the prophecy.” At that, Jughead does fall silent, his stomach momentarily feeling like lead. His friend takes the opportunity to lean forward. “I mean, do your kind ever talk about it?”

Chewing mostly in one cheek, Jughead shifts in his chair. “‘My kind’ tend not to talk to each other. Half the time it results it stolen studies and curses. We’re creatures of solitude, remember?” he accentuates, gesturing grandly to himself, the loner sorcerer extraordinaire.

Frowning, Archie pulls the table like he’s gonna climb on top of it instead of scooting his chair closer. “But you--I mean you guys have to know about it.”

“Obviously we know about it. We don’t live under rocks.” He hesitates. “Just...in towers made of stone.”

“So when do you have sex?”

Cheeks flaming, incredulous, Jughead wonders if this is a legitimate question.

Somehow, Archie looks like the one who’s exasperated. “I mean, you have to do it _sometime,_ right? Otherwise sorcerers would die out, and the prophecy says that magic wielders are going to--”

His fist slams down on the table, the perfectly good bread going cold in his hands. “I know what the prophecy says, Arch!”

“Okay, so...when?”

He knows this isn’t going to go over well with his romantic-minded friend and preemptively averts his gaze, shoulders tensing. “I don’t.”

“Never?”

“No, never. I'm not _looking_ to, either.” Shame plucks at his gut but he buries it under another bite.

“But the--”

Jughead points the bread in warning. “If you say _prophecy_ one more time, I’m going to practice my next curse on you.”

“Okay, fine, so _you_ don’t want to. Which is kind of weird, by the way. How are your...people...even going to meet up for that kind of thing? I’ve never seen two of them in the same place at the same time.”

“There’s a spell,” he mutters, dipping the bread grumpily. “ _Eye of the Beholder._ All sorcerers learn it. It’s kind of a portal spell, where if you link, you can communicate enough to find a place to meet.”

“What do you mean _link_?”

“You...you use a mirror, and you can see parts of people.” Archie’s eyes light up in excitement, curiosity. “Not _those_ parts. Although, from what I’ve gathered, that’s not off the table. You cast your image, too. Usually it’s backs and abodes, anything that would identify the other blurred out.”

“Don’t you want to know what their faces look like?”

“It’s a hookup spell, Archie, for when sorcerers want to procreate or get their jollies or--whatever it is people do.”

“But not you.”

“No, not me.”

Not that he'd... _never_ want to see a naked girl, or feel what it felt like to be with one _safely_. There've been some dreams that've indicated he'd like someone warm and soft beside him (or on top of him, really). He's read books that've described sex having a similar to the rush of casting a successful spell without as much of the learning curve beforehand. In theory, that's great. But people make him nervous. They're selfish and disappointing and destructive and he can't imagine liking someone enough to push past that to actually be vulnerable enough to let them touch his body, let alone destroy the barrier that'd make him want to explore theirs.

They sit in tense silence, eating, while Archie thinks.

“You know, you could get a pardon from it. The kingdom’s decreed the low number of magic wielders as an emergency, especially considering the…” He trails off, clearing his throat. “They said any sorcerers who make a magic child through their own natural means would be officially pardoned. Maybe even protected. I could be assigned to you, Jug.”

“I don’t need your protection.”

“I know,” he flushes.

“And you want me to prostitute myself for what--a pardon?” he spits, disgusted by the idea that maybe his parents did the same thing.

Archie looks apologetic for even bringing it up. “It wouldn’t be that bad. I mean, it’s just sex, Jug. Not…indentured servitude.”

It’s so like Archie to see _Eye of the Beholder_ as a means to some potential pardon, protection, and a pleasurable night of procreation. Like sorcerers have a long and noble bloodline that ought to be continued.

Sorcerers live in towers to get _away_ from people, to get closer to their studies and the magical elements radiating in the atmosphere. The rare occasion anyone approaches them is usually in the hopes they can trade coin or interesting ingredients for the sake of some magic far more powerful than a simple wizard could enact. But sorcerers don’t approach _each other_ for much of anything. It’s a recipe for disaster, or at the very least an emotional earthquake linked to their powers when egos inevitably flare up. Jughead’s not even sure other sorcerers put themselves out there on the regular except when they get the occasional urge for a bedfellow or chaos. Even when they do, they tend to prefer things as impersonal as possible so they can get back to their studies and sorcery without worrying about a feud or hurt feelings. Some use masks to protect their faces and take on a persona, others keep their voices silent or changed. It’s all...impersonal, for the most part. Even if it _could_ technically lead to more.

Just because there aren’t many magical folks left is no reason to force parts together.

Jughead dunks his bread a little forcefully in Archie’s soup before flinging up towards his mouth, some of the brew flecking his friend’s underarmor. “I’m not making myself vulnerable for the supposed _safety of the_ _kingdom_ and a _pardon_ because of a fight with my parents and a few idiot thieves falling off my tower.”

“It’s not just for the prophecy and the pardon thing,” Archie protests. “Don’t you ever get...lonely in that tower of yours? Finding another sorcerer to spend the night with might put you in a better mood. Get the brain flow going. Or if not a sorcerer--why not someone else?”

“It’s not in our nature, Arch. We don’t _see our god_ or whatever you do when we get together. The only stars we’d be seeing is after being knocked out in a brawl. And as for the _why not someone else_ \--besides not being interested in that area of study, non-magic wielders tend to want this thing called _a connection._ ”

“What? You can’t have a connection? You can’t fall in love? Or lust?” Archie furrows his brow like that’s the least comprehensible thing in the world.

“We _can_ , I guess.” He shakes his head, frowning, cogs turning and creaking in a ridiculous area of mystery. “Like I said, it’s just...not a priority.”

“Huh. You’d figure with all those emotions tied to magic, that if you fell in love, it’d really be something.”

“A disaster?”

“Spectacular,” Archie corrects.

Sinking into his chair, Jughead swirls the bread in his leftover soup. “Isn't love supposed to be _nurtured_? Or a strike of lightning? My parents literally tore down each other’s towers. How would sorcerers settling down even work? We don’t like to cohabitate, our emotions are all over the place, and our studies might fall by the wayside. Who could we trust not to interfere with that? Even women outside the _Eye of the Beholder_ spell are likely to try to get pregnant just to get favors--which wouldn't help, by the way. Sorcerers aren't exactly known for being loyal to their kin. It's not in our nature to be loyal to anyone but ourselves.”

“Not all sorcerers are hostile, Jug, and not all people without magic are scheming to get something from you. Come on, you’re friends with _me_.”

“More out of persistence than anything else,” he grumbles, ducking with a smile when Archie reaches over to slap at his cap.

“I’m just saying...you’re a sorcerer, and I know you can take care of yourself, but you do have options. One specifically for people like you. Maybe you want to take a closer look and get the pardon so the thieves guild has to take the target off your back. You might even have a good time.”

“Yeah. Right,” he scoffs, dunking his bread in the creamy liquid again. Still, the prompt sits heavy with him all the way home, distracting him from his studies.

The idea of mutual selection for a mate is terrifying. Jughead knows he should at least _try_ to continue the dwindling line of sorcerers, those born with innate magic. The newest prophecy was pretty clear that magic will be at the heart of saving the word from whatever catastrophe is coming sometime in the next century. Besides, if he does his part, he’ll get benefits. A warm embrace, even if it's...temporary.

Also, protection, he reminds himself. Pardons for things that aren't his fault. Thinking about it drives him insane, so he finishes his notes and goes to bed.

The dreams come again, more persistent and feverish. Something hot rolls on top of him as stones shift. Someone's pulling apart his home. Thieves? Is it the woman whose face he can't focus on who's perched on top of him? As he sits up in alarm, ready to cast a curse on whomever appears at the window, the angel on top of him strokes his face, covers him with her body and rocks him into sweet, dark, oblivion.

He wakes up in a sweat, groaning at the mess. Distracted by the itching curiosity in his veins, that morning he accidentally messes up a spell. Pain throbs through the tips of his fingers. Working through it doesn't help. As he wraps his hands with a healing ointment, he gets more and more frustrated with himself and his lack of concentration.

Maybe if he just _looks_ and sates whatever curiosity lays in the recesses of his brain, he can concentrate. Put a real person to the fantasy that keeps creeping up in his dreams. There's nothing in the spell that makes him actually have to follow through with communicating with anyone. Meeting them. Touching them.

His neck feels hot at just the thought of it. Digging through his drawers, Jughead fishes out the handheld mirror he uses when he needs to capture light, pausing to look at his own face. It's not something he considers often. People _look_ at him, usually more because of his powers than his body, but he supposes based on Archie's ribbing and lingering glances he's gotten in town that he could be considered handsome. Ridiculously enough, Jughead _hopes_ he could be considered attractive if he ever does find someone he thinks could be interesting.

Not that it matters _now_ if they can only see his back. Sighing, he disrobes from the waist up and puts some magic salve on his shoulders in the hopes it'll be the only thing they can really see.

He tries to stretch out his neck from its rising tension, and casts the mirror portal spell on the handheld, fully aware that his salved-up backside is visible in the larger mirror behind him. At least this way there are no faces.

Flinching as the enchantment casts, Jughead shudders and takes a better look at the backs of the girls who appear in his handheld mirror. Dark hair doesn’t appeal to him, despite his own. It reminds him of his mother. So he swipes past the few that pop up there. There’s a _pair_ of women with red and pink hair entwined with one another that has him pause out of confusion more than interest. Their embrace makes him think he’d definitely get out of potential child-rearing responsibilities, but they seem kind of _intense_ , so he swipes again. No one seems that attractive to him. His neck feels stiff from awkwardly flexing his shoulder muscles for whomever’s looking at him, but it’s still early and he should at least find _one_ potential match or else Archie will never let him hear the end of it and he might never be able to concentrate again, trying to concoct his dream girl in his head instead of following the energy of the universe to new secrets. There’s no way Jughead could stomach oiling himself up like this again without some hope of someone--some _thing_ to latch onto.

It doesn’t matter if they’re wearing the finest silks or furs, or even if they’re bare and he can see a bit off the roundness of their butt, there’s just no spark. Not that there’s an infinite amount of ovulating magical-blood women out there, especially sorcerers in general who _want_ that sort of companionship and responsibility. There’s so much feuding between the bloodlines that any alliance, even for a night, could cause significant tension with another. But there’s hope, at least, that there will be _someone_ who won’t want to murder him because of what his selfish parents have done or maybe even his own misdeeds. At the very least, his potential companion and he will both be protected by their anonymity.

As Jughead gets into the rhythm of swiping their images away, he almost flies past a blonde. His fingers stay fixed on the smooth surface, an ache taking root in his wrist. She’s beautiful. They’re all beautiful, he supposes, but she’s… _soft_. Wavy blonde hair curls into the dip between her bare shoulders, her feet tucked neatly behind her rear. Even the furs and carefully woven blankets on her bed look giving and warm, neatly arranged and well-cared-for in a way that makes him want to curl up into it and take a nap, find out if all those curves are as inviting as they look.

Not that she's likely to find his obscene number of books and parchment particularly intriguing, nor his insane diagrams. Most of his room is blurred, no doubt, to protect his work and conceal his identity. Since their community is fairly small, the mirror spell attempts every attempt at anonymity so as not to reveal the work nor any personal indicators of appearance. Tattoos don’t appear as they would in real life, nor do exact bedrooms. It’s just an idea of what the person is like. Hooking up seems more appealing to most sorcerers when there’s no real risk of recognizing the person or owing them outside of the expected exchange of goods in case of a pregnancy.

Most sorcerers don’t even keep _friends_ , per se. He’s lucky he has Archie, that a friend keeps him from falling headlong into the darkest secrets of magic, never asking for spells in return. It’s a small miracle Archie even enjoys Jughead’s company, despite his acerbic nature, and forces him to go outside and interact with the world beyond his studies.

This woman might have friends, too. She has portraits in her room, which is unusual for someone of their lifestyle. Not famous scenes or dark towers, not even landscapes and animals. Painted _people_...likenesses that are slightly blurred and looks like maybe they’ve been displaced a little in her effort to keep them out of the mirror’s edge as much as possible. Her library takes up a fair amount of the wall, homemade journals and published works interspersed with what he presumes are more study-related works. Maybe she’s...personable. Smart.

And she’s still looking at him.

He thinks dreaming of her might be worth the mess. Worth the risk.

Flexing his shoulders, he decides to go for it. He angles the handheld mirror over his shoulder to connect with the one trained on his backside. It glows warm in his hands, then vibrates, almost causing him to drop it.

She must have mirrored his image, too.

The idea of someone choosing _him_ just based on his backside and an idea of his room makes him pause. From what he understands, he can keep swiping, keep looking for mates for the week. But he doesn’t. He stays, staring at the curve of her shoulder, wondering why there aren’t more artists in the world to paint skin like hers in watercolor. Skin’s never been particularly interesting to him before, not even his own. And yet…

The girl’s delicate hand comes up, drawing her hair up so he can see more of her bare back. As if he needs more enticement. He’s already seen, already approved. And yet, with the raised arm, her breast just out a little to the side, enough to see its subtle dollop of flesh. His cock twitches against his thigh, and he tries not to think about the pressure it seeks. The heat.

Although maybe this is a good thing, if he’s supposed to actually...sleep with her. Maybe.

Stretching back, he watches as she continues to keep her mirror on him, not seeking another mate. What would _she_ like? His mysterious potential lover?

There's something he thinks is a pretty little plant in the corner of her window, but no indication of what she'd really want to _see_ from him.

Following her lead, he rakes his nails along his scalp, tugging his hair so she can see the long curls falling over his fingers. His hair's not long enough to hide his shoulders, but at least it's something to touch. The sorceress widens her knees, her bottom bobbing cautiously on the bedspread. Nostrils flaring, he wants to see _more_. Tries to think of a way to speed up the parchment that’ll appear with a time and place. Get this over with. This _urge_.

But then her fingers trail down from her hair to her neck, the side of her breast, and _down,_ and Jughead is hopelessly lost. Although he doesn’t have any curves to trace, he does reach down, too, curious enough not to be ashamed that he’s been tempted to touch.

_Keep your eyes open_ , he has to order himself, fighting the urge to let them roll back into his head as he pumps his length. All they have with this spell is sight. No sound. No touch. Although the handle still vibrates and warms with the match, he wishes he had _more._ He imagines what her body would feel like if she was seated on his lap instead of on her bed.

Their backs both ripple with pleasure. Slow. Fascinated. No eyes. One hand.

_Is this normal?_

As her shoulders roll with her effort, he feels the heat collect like a tense muscle in his neck. She clenches forward, seized by some invisible force, and so is he, spilling out onto the bedspread, his veins bursting behind closed eyelids.

When he comes back into himself, exhausted, he’s sad to discover that the image of her is gone. Their arms probably got tired from their other…exertions. Dropping the mirror on the bedspread, connection clearly lost, Jughead falls back into the embrace of his mattress. If he got this worked up just from a bare backside, he’s not sure how he’s going to survive any actual interaction.

But at least he found a prospect.

A blonde one.

He groans and starts to clean his sticky, oily sheets.

~~~~

The next morning, Jughead starts awake as a scroll crackles into place on his desk with a potential place and time for them to meet. He stares at it, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, the drool from his lips, and wonders if he should bother at all. There wasn't a dream _last_ night. Maybe their bout of mutual masturbation satisfied his curiosity.

Plus it’s not like he has experience in these things, and most likely he’ll just be a giant disappointment. As a lover. As a potential absentee father. He’d hate to just leave a kid in some stranger’s care and hope she brings them up to be a decent person. She doesn’t seem like the kind of mother to make kids wander through the enchanted forest on their own _to toughen them up,_ show them how harsh the world can be, that they need to be harsher.

By the time most sorcerers are preteens, they’re already out on their own to build their own abode so as not to clash with their family, to clash with the world, whether they’ll survive it or not.

He sighs, rubbing his face again in the hopes it will scrape away some of his less pleasant childhood memories.

Part of him’s tempted to crumple and burn the scroll, to reject the mirror’s opportunity.

But.

_But_.

She has portraits. Non-magic books. A clean place, a light palette. Maybe the only reason he didn't have a dream last night was because he had a sexy taste of reality.

_The girl is gorgeous, inviting, clean, and probably wants to lay with you, something that may only happen once in your solitary life if you keep avoiding every peasant girl who casts her eye on you_ , Archie would remind him.

Annoyed, Jughead falls back on his bed. This whole thing is stupid. This is why sorcerers are the only class he’s aware of that _need_ a magical consort service...because it takes something close to a miracle to convince him to leave his tower, let alone meet someone on _purpose_ besides Archie.

His mirror glimmers in the sunlight filtering through the curtains, and he reaches for it. Not to _look_ again, necessarily, but…to think.

An hour later, he’s no closer to an answer, burying himself in his work so he doesn’t focus on anything else.

The scroll flutters, cackling.

_I think I’d like to meet you_.

It kind of unsettles him that she _is_ real, communicating with him in his isolation, in his waking hours.

_Why?_ He almost wants to ask.

Instead, he flexes his fingers and tries to think of a legitimate response. There’s only so much room they have to communicate on the scroll before they either accept or dismiss it. He's not sure about anything, about if he really _wants_ this, wants children or sex or nothing at all, so he writes the first thing that comes to his mind.

_You and your books caught my eye._

_What are you reading?_

He blushes, a knot forming in his throat as he glances at his overflowing library.

_In Cold Blood._

_Dark realism. A great read._

He wriggles over the scroll, anticipating that she’s basically _there_ with him.

_Any recommendations?_

The conversation flows fairly naturally, and before he knows it they’re scribbling in the tiny margins and praising and debunking things. She makes him laugh, riles him up, it’s just...it’s interesting, for someone he’s never met. Someone he’s jerked off with.

_So both of us could use immunity and some extra gold, I’m guessing? Or do you really want children?_

He feels bolder now that they’ve chatted a bit more.

A dark mark sifts as she rests her ink on the page.

_Recently I’ve found great joy in playing with my niece and nephew. I don’t need a child, but I’d be happy to have them. I’d want to do better than my parents, though. I want them to feel loved, have cousins to play with, choose their own spells to learn. Value free will._

Cousins. Family. Freedom. They’re all concepts he’s only vaguely aware of. This woman keeps surprising him. As he processes the idea of _better_ , more words appear to him.

_I’m sorry if that makes you uncomfortable._

He hurriedly puts his pen back to paper, alarmed by the thought she thinks she should close herself off to him or that he’s doing that to her while he’s processing.

_Not at all. I think that’s admirable._

He sits back, chewing on his lip. She’s different than most sorceresses he’s met in passing. Most of them hiss a spell in his direction and he does the same. They just stay out of each other’s way. This woman seems more like she could be...a neighbor. A friend? More?

_Could I...would it be strange to ask if I could know them, if we had any? I'd like to know how they're being raised._

_Yes. I’m sure we could all use a bit of nurturing._

He stares, wide-eyed, quill bending with strain, and she writes more.

_Should you want to meet with me at all, that is._

_I do,_ he decides.

_I’ll see you soon_ , she writes back, decorating the end with a little heart that makes his own thrum in surprise.

She likes him.

She seems _nice_.

Maybe.

Maybe giving _her_ children...maybe they’d be okay and he could check on them to make _sure_. Maybe he’ll have a good time with her, regardless.

He shoots off a message to Archie to go for a walk, because he gets the feeling he ought to study before anything significant happens.

~~~

The nest is a little out of the way, but not terribly far. Out here, people don’t stare at his mask, used to strange things and questers meandering through the enchanted forest. He’s scheduled to rendezvous with his blonde temptress in an abandoned watchtower.

It still seems odd to him that there’s _such_ a shortage of sorcerer/sorceress types that the government basically encourages their nights of pleasure. A kingdom without magic is defenseless, especially against those who would use it for ill will. Which, ironically, is usually a sorcerer’s modus operandi.

Jughead makes his way up to the tower, lighting a fireplace in the master suite. Canvas wall hangings of furs and flowers adorn the walls, and he wonders which ones were brought in by others to muffle out noise and light. He rearranges the blankets and skins in a way he hopes is pleasing, kneading his own cloak between his fingers for fear of having nothing else to do. There are a few books and potions in his bag, even a scroll and ink in case they want to communicate or share things, which seems silly to him now, but he’d been so flustered when he was leaving it hadn’t even occurred to him she probably didn’t want to trade books. Although maybe for the children…

The idea of procreating makes his veins buzz in apprehension, and he tries to remember the soft glow of her bedroom in the mirror.

_She has some kind of support system. She likes people_ , he tries to remind himself. _A blonde girl with a sexy bare back and book collection who wants to sit on some soft blankets with you._

He takes a small swig of calming drought, knowing he can’t take too much or he’ll pass out. Archie told him to work out before she got in so his muscles would be particularly enticing, but she had seemed pleased enough with his muscles in the mirror, and he’s not sure exercising will do anything for his nerves.

The trot of a horse approaches outside and leans out the window, catching sight of blonde hair amidst a riding mask and a surprisingly light-colored cloak for riding, dirt gathered around the edges. She must’ve dressed up for this.

Before he can remember the good sense to go back inside and wait, she looks up, probably able to feel his gaze, or maybe just the threat of other magic. Her lips part in surprise, and his do, too. A sharp feeling shoots up in his chest, stronger than embarrassment, maybe closer to a burst of heat. They regard each other carefully, the air feeling thin.

She’s real.

She’s here for him. Now, he’s just...waiting for her.

He’s seen her come, and she’s seen him…and now…

If he thinks too much more about it he’s probably going to burst into flames, calming drought or not.

Most suitors in their situation probably hold their first greeting in the tower receiving area or naked in the bedroom, but he didn’t even _think_ about resisting the impulse to see her in real life. Now that she’s seen him, he probably shouldn’t just retreat. Nodding seems to be the only appropriate nonverbal greeting. He tries not to focus on the pink of her parted lips, the way the moonlight paints her pale skin, the way he knows the firelight will warm it.

After she dismounts, the woman strokes her horse’s neck, her back to the window. Maybe she’ll change her mind. He doesn’t think so, though. It’s more like she’s catching her breath. He could use that, too. Casting magic would help tame his racing heart, give him something he knows how to do to focus on instead of preparing to humiliate himself in front of a beautiful woman.

With a quick incantation, he casts the expected silence charm to keep them even more anonymous, to keep this as part of an expected arrangement. He wonders if she really would need a pardon. Angelic sorcerers tend to do things like lure the weak-minded to do their bidding, but he hasn’t heard of anything like that in this region. Her horse’s hair is thick, almost like it’s from the north. That pale cloak is rare enough he might be able to narrow a region it was manufactured, should he take to investigating, but he shouldn’t.

It doesn’t matter.

They’re here for a purpose. Procreation.

Also, pleasure. Companionship, even if it’s only temporary.

Taking a deep breath, he loosens his cloak, only just starting to draw it from his shoulders when the girl peeks into the room. Again, it’s like the air’s sucked right out of his lungs, warmth blooming under his veins. Gaze fixed on her mask, he notes that she’s chosen something between a swan and a barn owl. Her eyes are nothing like those beady black pinpoints so often found in birds. They’re full of emotion: curiosity, intelligence, maybe a hint of nerves. Neither of them say anything, not that they’d be able to hear it if they did, but his heart pounds loud enough in his ears that he thinks she still might be able to make it out.

Without the calming drought in his system, he’s not sure what he’d do.

The swing of air around them as she sheds her cloak makes his hairs stand on end. She plays at the lacings on the front of her dress, smiling faintly by way of greeting. The air feels thick with anticipation.

He doesn’t know what to say. Or maybe he should be doing something besides getting naked and mounting her. There’s a chance she’s done this before and will show him what to expect, how to behave. Archie’s advice can only be trusted so much when his experiences have different stakes attached to them. There’s little chance Archie’s potential offspring will turn into murderous pawns, nor is it likely that a jilted lover will tear his home apart stone by stone, casting curses on his name every other day.

Still.

This is his duty. And this _woman_ seems nice. He takes a deep breath, loosening his own shirt and fighting rising anxiety. The calming drought slowly works its way into his system enough that he manages a half-smile in her direction, gesturing to the parchment and ink on the table. If she wants it. Curious, the woman smiles and takes the quill in hand.

_How are you feeling?_

They awkwardly step around one another so he can respond back.

_Nervous. But I took a calming drought. How are you?_

_Excited and nervous, I think. I have some wine, if that will help. I also have a fertility potion, one for virility as well. We don’t have to take them; they’re just there if we want them. No pressure, Crowolf. You have a nice smile._

He laughs, absently touching his mask. Warming under her gaze, he reaches for the quill, fingers millimeters from hers as she puts the quill back to the paper.

_Did you know that crows and wolves both mate for life?_

He bites down on his grin.

_Yes. Owls and swans are of a similar disposition, aren’t they? Should I call you Owlswan in my head?_

She gives him an indulgent, if somewhat incredulous smile and turns away. An eager, sweaty, part of him wishes he’d brought _more_ parchment so they could keep getting to know each other before...whatever is going to happen. Whatever he’ll probably be dreaming about for some time to come.

Indulging in banter is a little risky, considering a sorcerer’s typical disposition, but he likes talking to her. He doesn’t see them erupting into a fight and crumbling the watchtower walls. Archie had teased they might bring down the structure for other, more pleasant reasons, but Jughead’s still a little unsure on that front.

They both move about the room, absently circling one another as they loosen their clothes. The woman bends over to place three bottles on the trunk at the foot of the bed. One definitely looks like wine. The others...their dark contents must be the potions she mentioned for virility and fertility.

She tilts her head, gesturing for him to help himself to any of them.

Abstaining doesn’t seem like the right way to go.

Wine would definitely help his nerves, so he sniffs the fermented grapes for any sign of tampering before pouring himself a glass, then hovering over the spare goblet in question.

A small smile graces her lips as she nods.

Even the absence of the sound of wine pouring makes his hairs stand on end. It’s _strange_. He’s used silencing spells before, usually just before bed. It can be unnerving, the absence of his own breathing, of footsteps, almost like he’s in a nightmare or the scenario is _wrong_ , somehow. At least she seems relatively at ease, delicately taking the goblet in hand when she wants him to stop. They sip slowly, and he tries to focus on the way her throat moves when she swallows instead of how badly he’d like to set himself on fire just to stop feeling so inept.

He could. Set himself on fire.

But that might make a bad impression and earn him a beautiful enemy for life.

So he sips, watching her watch him. As she rolls her lips together amidst the dark stain of wine, he wishes he could see more of her eyes beyond the glossy shine. Wonders about the curve of her throat.

He glances at the parchment, wondering if it’s too personal to ask about her journey here. What she’s been thinking about all week. How she wants him.

The woman places her goblet on the stand, studying the wine bottle like she can calculate how much more she should take before feeling inclined to shed her clothes.

Downing whatever’s left in his glass, Jughead plops his goblet next to hers. She jumps, startled, since she couldn’t hear him approach behind her, he guesses, but her fingers brush his arm and his heart stumbles just a little bit.

He’s read about this feeling, of course. Seen it on Archie’s face when a pretty bard starts her song and he gets the wild idea he can harmonize.

But never _felt_ it...that fluttery sort of lightness.

Maybe it’s magic. Or wine.

He quirks an apologetic smile in her direction and sidles up beside her. What else are they supposed to do? He pops the cork on what he thinks is the virility potion, curious.

If her little smile is anything to go by, this will undoubtedly be a good thing to use tonight, presuming they get to the act itself. He takes a tiny sip straight from the bottle, cheeks burning at the implication. Before he can set it back on the trunk, his date gives him a reassuring squeeze on the arm, relinquishing him of the bottle to take a tiny sip for herself.

Swallowing hard, Jughead’s glad he took the calming drought, especially since staring at her lips on a place his just laid, even just being around her, combined with the virility potion, make him stir noticeably under his britches.

They are here for a reason. Not just talking on parchment and smiling like... _a date_ , as nice as that might be, if not for their unique motivations.

She’d probably be fine with just tonight, but a part of him wants this to mean something more. Nervously licking his lips, he picks up the fertility potion, considering the possibility before them.

The woman taps his wrist so he looks at her face. As she opens her mouth, she pauses, seeming to remember the silencing spell, but speaks her question anyway. _“Are you sure?”_

_No_ , is the honest answer, but he pours just a little in his goblet anyway. He toasts the cup to her in mock cheers, tasting it before he can doubt himself too badly. It’s fine. Almost like grape juice without the fermented quality of wine. The angel gently pulls at his cup, drawing it to her own lips. He stares, mystified, at her berry pink lips lightly coated in wine. The sight of her tongue lapping away the fertility liquid before it’s even made it down his throat makes his nerves tingle with need.

This close, he can make out more of the details on her face. A beauty mark on her chin. Not so anonymous. He reaches up to caress it, his hand tracing over the rest of her exposed cheek. Part of him wants to lift her mask up. See everything. Especially as she watches him with rapt attention, her hands still gripped tightly around his cup.

He skims his thumb over that beauty mark, memorizing it before moving past her lips. The little ridges bow so gracefully that he gasps when they open against him.

Waiting.

He feels his insides twist, warmth pooling in his gut.

_“Do you want me?”_ He says, even though she can’t hear, can only see his lips moving. He’s not sure if he’s more than some faceless back she got off to thanks to the influence of a spell, someone she talked to about books.

Perhaps not.

But…

She nods, kissing his hand and rubbing the mark in as she sets the goblet aside.

He searches her gaze carefully, trying to find a trace of color, emotion. All he sees is the candlelight, a fleck of gold reflected in her eyes as she seems to search him, too.

Worry. Want.

His hand falls just a little as she glances at the parchment, apparently deciding to meet his gaze instead. “ _Do you?_ ” she asks, mouth twisted in concern, fingers trembling. _“We don’t have to do anything._ ”

She bites her lip, stroking the edge of his shirt lacings before letting her hand fall back to her side.

He considers her thoughtfulness. The way her conscientiousness seeps into what could easily be a carnal business arrangement.

He likes her.

With a violent surge of sureness, he cups either side of her perfect, angular jaw. He kisses her. Passionately, firmly, eyes shut tight and thumbs skimming her jaw until her lips open and massage wetly against his, the taste of bitter wine mixing with the cooling fertility agent. When the velvet of her tongue creeps into his mouth his knees just about buckle.

_I do_ , he says, even though she can’t hear him, even though she’s pulling him close by the shirt, the face, to kiss him again. It’s strange, but nice, having her in his arms. _Touching_. An embrace. The first of its kind, for him, and he revels in it, trying to relax his jaw when she pulls away, mirroring how she wants the kiss to progress. It soothing and invigorating in a way that has him desperate to push the entirety of their bodies together.

They move closer, kissing languidly until his thoughts get fuzzy and lost amidst the mix of calm and recklessness in his stomach and veins. His hands caress down her neck, feeling her tendons move with each roll of her mouth against his. He can feel her little moans, but he can’t hear them. The silence is worse. Awful.

Annoyed, he noses out of their kiss, hugging her. She squirms as his lips brush her neck, her chest vibrating against him and he isn’t sure what it means, so annoyed by the quiet smothering them that he rips the silence charm away only to have it broken by her sweet, bubbling laughter.

They both jerk apart, shocked at the sound. Even their gasps and heavy breathing sound too loud. Eyes wide, she looks around the room.

Swallowing hard, he manages to creak, “Sorry, is this okay?”

The woman seems to think on it, still looking over her shoulder for some unseen adversary before refocusing nervously on him. With a sincere nod, she moves forward, leaning in for another kiss.

This time there's hesitance in their intimacy. They listen to the sounds of their mouths. He revels in her little moans, her tiny, breathy laughs when he hits that spot on her neck again, nibbling at it until she pushes at his chest.

Beaming, she moves around the bed, Jughead following her like there’s a magnetic pull. With a meaningful glance, she gestures to the mattress.

“ _Eager?_ ” he murmurs gleefully.

She audibly scoffs, the sound of it making him grin like an idiot, even as she pushes him onto the bed. Still eager, he helps her lift off his shirt, undo his breeches, and wrangle off his pants. She watches him undress with quiet fascination, her fingers and lips trailing across his chest, his abs. Moaning, he takes a fistful of her hair, irritated that the band of her mask is in the way of her soft, silky strands. He’s never felt hair like this before. Not on furs, not on people.

As her lips chafe at and around his dick, he lets out a strangled: “Please.”

Gaze sharply shooting up to his face, the angel wraps a hand firmly around his base, spreading his precum and pumping for quick relief.

A string of incoherent encouragement pours forth from his lips, abruptly cut off when she wraps her mouth around him and _sucks_ , every brain cell going defunct in white-hot, blinding pleasure.

If not for the virility elements of the fertility potion he’s sure he’d have come all over her face by now. Her tongue is the best kind of torture, slicking its way up his shaft in determined strokes that might as well be runes because there’s no way to describe it short of magic.

His fist tightens hard in her hair.

“Ah!” Her short little cry has him scooting back, alarmed.

She tilts her head, kissing his hand, which is still firmly snagged in her hair.

“Oh,” he realizes, apologetic, limbs falling back on the bed. He’s not supposed to be talking. Not really. She’s just--it’s hard to _think_ like this, when his whole body seems to be running on impulse.

Jughead wipes his face, rearranging on the bed until she can crawl up alongside him, lifting her dress over her head as she does it.

He strokes her hair gently in apology. Nodding, she leans forward for more kisses, undoing her shift and laying it by the bed.

She’s beautiful. He knew that just from the mirror, but up close? From the front?

His hands wander along her backside, carefully down the plush curve of her ass. He squeezes it, palms and kneads to the wet, approving gasps of his potential lover. It’s heavenly. Hot. He kisses the space just between her perfect breasts just to taste her sweat. It’s not like they need to do this part, the foreplay. The potion will have assisted in making her slick and him hard and ready but... _but…_

She strokes his hair, watching him with what might even be construed as affection. Even if he is a stranger. Even if sorcerer’s tend not to... _do_...physical affection. With renewed energy, he kisses and suckles along her breasts, thankful that he can _hear_ the moans he feels against his lips. Her knees come up on either side of him, her heat practically radiating just out of reach.

There’s a pause where they just indulge in the electricity between them. He didn’t think it was really like this. Making love. Having sex. He traces light circles on her back, closes his eyes, and surrenders to the kisses she bestows upon him. She seems content to just lay and look at him, her thighs wrapped around his.

It’s a relief that she doesn’t want this over with, that they’re able to take their time. His hands run over the length of her body, pulling gently on her nipples, hooking under her rear to bring her closer. As much as he loves food, he can’t say he’s ever had something so delightful to do with his mouth as suck gasps from her breasts and massage kisses into her mouth. He wonders about the _other_ thing. The one that Archie told him about. It’d be hard to do with the mask, though, and she’s shown no indication of wanting to take it off. He shudders at the light scratch marks she runs down his back followed by the soothing ministrations of her palms against all of him.

Eventually, their jaws sore, skin tingling, they pull apart, scanning each other’s swollen mouths like they’re fruits looking for the right moment to harvest.

Looking torn, she gently pulls on his shoulders. Eager to please, he follows her motion, covering her body with his own.

This is the most intimate he’s been with someone physically, and yet it feels even more vulnerable emotionally. Maybe it’s because they communicate so differently, so wholly, with and without their newly-found words. They know what the other wants and needs in this situation. Like the happy little sigh against his neck when he lets the pressure of his weight sink down on her, lips at her neck.

She enjoys this.

So does he, strangely enough.

It seems...unfair that it’s only for one night.

Although, if she doesn’t get pregnant right away, maybe it doesn’t have to be.

Leaning up on his elbows and moving off to one side, he gestures with his chin for her to spread her legs. Apprehension flashes in her eyes, but she does as he asked. As he places a kiss on her temple, it feels like his heart swells in his chest. Her back arches up and his whole body feels like it’s boiling. His fingers skid down her body, barely pausing before they’re between their legs. He pulls back enough to look at her face, to silently ask her permission. The woman shifts underneath him, nodding, opening her legs wider.

They moan into each other as his fingers find her heat. It’s softer and silkier than Jughead imagined it would be. He places dainty kisses on her neck, biting whenever she yanks his hair too tightly. Not sure where the impulse comes from, he sucks a red mark on her skin. Something vibrant. A bruise that’s all his.

Her legs jerk out as she readjusts, humming in appreciation of his curling fingers. As her lips fall open he thinks he hears the slightest bit of a song. She tries to rub him, but she’s so lost that her hands mostly just lay on his body and shift with her hips. Even her nails are clean. Her skin is so rosy that it’s practically radiant in her pleasure, lips parted in building need. All he can see through the mask are the heavy lashes closed in concentration.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, not even sure she can hear over the blood that’s most likely pounding in her ears.

Overwhelmed with affection, he leans over and kisses her hot on the mouth, spit still clinging to his lip as he trails down, laving at her breasts, her stomach, before perching himself between her legs. There are faint pink marks where the edge of his mask has nicked her perfect skin.

Nervous, he smooths it with his hands, wishing he could take it back. He slips his thumb under the mask and lifts it up a little, his skin feeling damp and refreshed by the exposure to air.

The woman sits up, eager to watch. The hint of apprehension on her face melts the moment his tongue presses against her swollen clit.

_“Fuck_!”

He can’t keep the grin off his face, so he buries himself a little more wholly in his task. If her moans were pretty, her curses are heavenly.

Whines catch in the back of her throat and her hips writhe in the hopes of pacing to a rhythm set by his mouth. The sweet tangy syrup coats his tongue, collected in swirls where he lathers her in affection that has her keening and practically pulsing, her hands shooting against his mask in the hopes of grabbing onto his hair. As they both shift, trying to readjust, he rips the damn thing off and rubs his whole face against her in a filthy display of passion.

She cries out, almost screaming at the sensation. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ,” she chants, practically ripping his hair out at the roots as he laps and laps at the tissue tightening at his tongue, around his fingers.

As he looks up, desperate to see her face amidst her keening high, all he sees are her breasts thrust up off the bed. The smooth plains of her stomach. He can’t imagine how anyone does this without _hearing_ the other person. It’s a giant turn on, one that has him leaking precum all over the sheets in a messy heap he can’t even be sorry for.

When she finishes, back settling against the mattress, he reaches blindly for his mask. Maybe she hasn’t seen him yet. Half his face was probably obscured by her thighs.

“Wait--”

Her voice is hoarse, thick with desire, fingers delicate on his arm, under his jaw. The woman’s face is _beautiful_ and the adoration too great for him to do anything other than obey, even if every inch of his skin feels like it’s being peeled off under her gaze.

He’s breaking every single rule. There’s only so much before she’ll probably do something--throw him out, report him to the closest kingdom, warn him away from other sorceresses and mates. And none of that would be so bad, he thinks, if it wasn’t for the potential of just _displeasing_ this woman he’s trying so hard to impress.

“ _You’re_ beautiful,” she wonders, tilting up his chin. Stunned, he just stares at her, not sure what to do. What to say.

“I’m...not--”

“You are,” she insists, urging him closer. He’s half on top of her as she sits up with urgency, scooting closer and lifting up the edge of her mask. There’s a pregnant pause, one that has his pupils dilating and heart pounding before she removes it entirely, her golden sweat-soaked hair tumbling free.

_Earth-green eyes_ , he thinks wildly, latching onto every detail he can. Flashes of fresh grass, delicate leaves and blooming flowers, trees thick and protective like tightly-coiled vines around his throat. And maybe she’d see in him the sea or the sky. They’re aligned.

Letting out a small whimper, he crawls forward, stunned into quiet comfort when she places her forehead against his.

“It’s okay,” she whispers, scratching his scalp, dopamine flooding his brain. “We’re not gonna hurt each other, are we?”

“No,” he vows, never quite so sure of anything in his life. For a moment, he wavers, looking deep into the rich depths of her eyes. “Isn’t this--unusual, though? Dangerous? To really... _know_ each other?”

“Maybe,” she shrugs, sniffing and smiling, her gaze darting down to his lips, fingers speckling against his cheek. “But I’m willing to risk it.” She takes a deep breath, her eyes and smile sparkling. “My name is Betty Cooper. Elizabeth is what I was named, but I changed it when I left home. My father’s known for massacring in the name of purifying magic and my pardon will be for sealing him away with poison-spitting flowers that have attacked the occasional civilian passing by. I won’t outright kill him, but I won’t get rid of the flowers, either because--I just can’t let him hunt innocent people. I hope you understand. I’m...I want to make the most of whatever years I have left, and I’d want to spend them with someone like you. You, specifically, in fact. Or if that’s too much, maybe just loving and raising children together. Not that that’s easier or harder, but...what do you think?”

It feels like his heart’s lifted out of his chest. She wants him to _know her._ She wants to have children _with_ him, not just _of_ him. Eyes watering, he smiles, following the trail of her fingers where she’s tucked her hair behind her ear.

“I understand. I want that too, Betty.” Her exhale of relief is so wholesome that it makes him _bloom_ just witnessing and being a part of her happiness. It takes him a full second of admiring her, kissing her, before he remembers to share the rest.

“My chosen name is Jughead Jones. Technically, Forsythe Pendelton Jones the Third, but it’s not a line I’m proud of. My family’s basically a wreck. Selfish, violent--pretty much the opposite of what you’d want. What anyone would want.” He picks at the sheets, at her knee. Everything already feels peaceful and giving with her, the exact opposite of what he’s experienced. “They just never stop fighting. Kept insisting that even though they basically left me to find my own way at 8 years old that I owed them my magic, my _allegiance_. My mom in particular wanted a dark spell to expand her territory, assert her dominance over my father. A fight broke out, and I burned down one of their towers. Half the woods and more than one house went with it.”

“Are they still after you?” she asks, brow furrowed, hand already on his in support. It’s strange in the most wonderful way to have someone _care_ about him like this, to see past the carnage to the feeling underneath.

“Who knows? My dad’s usually too drunk to do anything and my mom’s probably still off licking her wounds. But I wouldn’t let them--I’d protect _our_ family, Betts. If that’s what you want.”

Her eyes water, lips trembling. “Yes. I’d help you, Juggie.”

The nickname sends a warm spiral of affection down in his chest. “I don’t know how this works,” he laughs wetly, “I mean, people like us aren’t exactly known for cohabitating, let alone coparenting.”

“We’ll figure it out,” she promises, and for whatever reason, he believes her.

They move forward, eagerly kissing each other’s smiles.

“So...should I court you?” Laughing feels awkward, irregular, and amazing, his hands dancing on either side of her breasts.

“Jughead--just--come inside of me, please.”

Scooping her thighs up onto his forearms, Jughead repositions his tip along her slit, rocking and coating himself in her slick.

“You’re…” He’s at a loss for words, tension coiling in his belly, along his limbs. But he wants to _say_ something. Reassure her. Praise her.

Betty senses his indecision and grabs him behind the neck, pulling him in for a kiss. It’s not silence so much as feeling that grips him deep in his chest. A widening chasm of affection.

“Is this--do I love you?” he breathes, sinking in, cradling her as best he can amidst silk and heat and feeling.

“I hope so.” Betty’s heels dig into his back, urging him deeper until he’s all the way in and groaning, totally encased. “Because I--I think I feel the same way about you.”

“Fuck, Betty.”

If sorcerers can love, this is it. She’s it. They are. The idea they found each other half by chance on a mirror spell is wild and wonderful and _fated_ , if there ever was such a thing. Where’s the prophecy for _this_ miracle?

He moves with renewed vigor, bracing the back of her head as he slams his hips against the backs of her thighs. It’s messy and wonderful, their mouths barely able to align for a kiss before one of them is gasping in pleasure at the sensations pulsing through them both. Her nails dig into his skin, her mouth sears kisses on his neck and chest, he can barely think or breathe beyond moving inside of her. A pleasant jolt shoots through his veins every time they collide, ricocheting like lightning to its conduits.

As she tightens around him, crying out, he hears the shift of the watchtower. Rumbling. Rustling? None of it’s more important than the sounds of her rapture, and he comes hard to her symphony, feeling himself pour into her in bursting spurts until the already-slick between them nearly overflows.

Stilling, sore yet not in pain, he kisses her neck, enjoys her little moans and twisting limbs around him.

“You okay, Betty?”

“More than okay,” she sighs, barely able to open her eyes without a dazed satisfaction dancing behind them. Although he’s still hard and could keep going, he moves onto his side as she pulls him into a hug. He’s never been just _held_ like this. Safe in another person. Warm. The butterflies in his chest are fluttering wildly, all of them trying to settle close to her on his heart.

He wonders if sorcerers even marry, or if they just declare it, since it’s not like a government has real power over their unions or rivalries.

As he traces his fingers along her back, wondering, he looks over and realizes there are light purple flowers with dark purple veins blooming through the watchtower stone cracks.

“Betty,” he whispers, kissing her cheek. With a small gesture of his shoulder, she rearranges so she can see. “Are those for me?”

Face flushed, Betty turns to him with a bashful grin. The flowers flourish a little more vibrantly. “Maybe.”

“Maybe? Those aren’t poisonous, are they?”

She pricks at his chest with her nails. “No.”

“Because they look an awful lot like weeds.”

“They can be.”

As she worries her lip, nail still tracing lightly over his heart, he sits up. “What are they? What do they mean?”

Smiling wryly, Betty fixes him with those deep green eyes, and he feels like he can see everything. “They’re malva. Like the color, mauve?” He nods, not familiar with their uses in spells since they’re not native here. “It means _consumed by love_.” Lips parting, he searches her face in wonder.

After one night…

“Perhaps you’ll be the death of me,” she muses fondly, pecking his lips.

“Never,” he promises, kissing her firmly. She’s practically sparkling when they part, her leg sliding over until she’s able to sit up in his lap. An urge to cradle and protect her takes hold firmly in his chest.

“Even with the potion, we might not have gotten pregnant the first time,” she purrs, kissing along his jaw.

“Oh really?”

“Mmhm.” Her nose nuzzles along his in a way that makes his whole body want to stretch around her in a protective, warm shell. Or maybe he could build her a nest.

“You sure that wasn’t a love potion you gave me, Betty?”

As her lips close over his in a slow, languorous kiss, he almost wonders if this whole thing is a dream. His nerve endings light up in glee as she clenches around him, sinking them both into happy oblivion.

This time he’s able to hold on when she comes, memorizing the way her face scrunches up and goes slack. He wants to line their room with mirrors so he can get every angle of her from now on, but that might be distracting from the natural beauty right in front of him.

“Turn around,” he urges, gently kissing her shoulder. Betty smiles and readjusts, rocking on him just a little before lifting her hair up so he can see and feel all of her beautiful back. “It feels so good to be able to touch you.”

Kneading his thumbs into the dip of her back, Jughead drinks in the subtle curves of her sensual dance. Her body is his favorite new area of study. Every roll of her hips makes him feel like he’s becoming part of some beautiful secret of the universe. A part of her, their come still on their thighs.

He’ll have children and discoveries and a home with her. Love.

He reaches around and gropes her breast, full and rolling in his palms. As she clenches around him, nails tracing down her neck, the coil in his body tightens and releases into her heat.

// //

Little bursts of colorful buds erupt over the garden, a toddler squeeing in glee, hands out as they tumble towards a slightly alarmed butterfly.

“I blame you for this.” Jughead sighs dramatically, barely masking a laugh as he scoops the screaming, giggling child up in his arms, baby’s breath poking up beneath them. Kissing the short, wavy hair and the fat little cheek, he hoists his daughter onto his hip and makes his way across the refreshing, cool grass to Betty to kiss her cheek as well. She leans into him with adoration, hand coming into his hair to give him a deeper kiss full on the mouth until their little one protests they’re being squished.

“Wait your turn,” he chides, even as they get a kiss on their brow.

“Yes, I love you both. I love you _all_ ,” Betty corrects, caressing her blossoming belly right as their niece clamps onto her leg.

Squirming, their child frowns. “But me the most, right, Mama?” Betty’s eyes crinkle around the sides in affection, and she gives them another loud kiss on the nose by way of distraction. Unsurprisingly, it works. “When are we going to _eat_? I’m _hungry_.”

“We _just_ ate an hour ago!” Juniper protests, scowling.

Betty quirks a loving brow in Jughead’s direction. “I think I can blame _you_ for her insatiable appetite.”

“However will you quell it, m’lady?”

“I think I have some sunflower seeds for Malva, and I figured out a new sphere of silence spell for you and me.”

“Why?” Juniper asks loudly. “Are you telling secrets?”

He looks to Betty for guidance, widening his eyes in a silent plea.

“We’re going to be kissing. _All night long_ ,” Betty teases, resulting in a chorus of _ew_ ’s from the children hanging all over them and a heated thrumming picking up in his chest.

“Come on, Aunt Betty, you promised to show us the sparkle spell,” Juniper whines, tugging on Betty’s dress.

“You know,” Jughead muses, readjusting a squirming Mal over his shoulder as he follows the love of his life, one hand on her back to try and alleviate any soreness there, “Archie said that spending the night with you wouldn’t result in indentured servitude. I think he’s going to have a rude awakening in a few months when his own little monster comes out into the world. Veronica should have him well-trained by then. Making food for pregnancy cravings, building elaborate playpens, babysitting Malva and her cousins. What else could we convince your friend to get Archie to do?”

“Be nice, Juggie.”

“It’s not in my nature, Betts.”

As she turns to look at him, green eyes blooming with love, he thinks he knows what she’s going to say.

_Yes it is._

For her, it is.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorcerer tindr worked out for the best of Bughead. Also, can't you see their babies acting crazy? As always, I'm inspired, encouraged and motivated by their love and your support so let me know what you think! Fav parts? Moods? Imaginings?
> 
> Comment/kudo here or you had holler at me @lovedinapastlife on tumblr


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